The middle of the sentence

He woke up at 7 with the sound of the alarm clock – the selected ringtone was Night Owl -, a morning as every morning. He hit snooze, slept for five extra minutes during which he dreamt about being stuck in an elevator and eating his usual morning donut, and woke up. He answered his texts, kissed his asleep wife’s shoulder, told her he couldn’t leave work early to pick the kids up so they would take the school bus back home from school and at 7:12, he got up, took a quick shower and put on his work clothes. He couldn’t find his favorite tie, a green one with small squares, so he chose a simple burgundy one that was at reach. He checked both his kids’ room to see if they were awake, told them to rush and went to the kitchen to make them chocolate milk and himself coffee. They drank while the kids talked about last night’s episode of some show they’re obsessed with and he read the news on his phone. There was no time to do the dishes, so he put them on the sink and left them for later. At 7:38, they left the house and got a cab, because Mom would need the car to get to the hospital for her shift after lunch. The youngest, a girl, filled time with her story about her math teacher’s impossible pop quizz from the day before until they got to the school. He paid the cab driver, the kids hugged him fast and ran inside, and he went the way around the streets as he did every day, stopped at his favorite coffee shop, bought a plain glazed donut and went to work. He said good morning to the receptionist, set on his chair and typed until lunch, when he called the diner that was ten minutes away and ordered a Ceasar salad. He ate, typed again for a few more hours, said good night to the receptionist and by 6:23pm, he was leaving the building. He crossed the street while the traffic light was red, but as he finished the first lane and got to the second, a silver car Sedan going at 40mph hit him.

He died in the impact.

There was a tomorrow, and then there wasn’t.

This was the last day of his life, and not even the universe knew until now.

This was it. The last time he heard his alarm clock. The last dream he ever had. The last time he kissed his wife and smelled her scent of cinnamon and rose soap. The last tie he ever wore. The last breakfast he ever ate. The last daily news he ever read. The last thing about his kids’ things he would ever know. The last time he ate his favorite food. Dishes left unwashed. The last good morning, the last goodnight.

There was no period. It just stopped

in the middle of the sentence.

He was there, and then


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